Monday, September 15, 2014

My First Time: John Warner



My First Time is a regular feature in which writers talk about virgin experiences in their writing and publishing careers, ranging from their first rejection to the moment of holding their first published book in their hands.  Today’s guest is John Warner, the author of, most recently, the story collection Tough Day for the Army, which I previously blogged about here.  Roxane Gay praised the book by saying, “John Warner is an uncanny writer, bringing both heart and humor to his stories in the most winning of ways.”  John's previous novel is called The Funny Man.  He writes a column for the Chicago Tribune book supplement, Printers Row (which I, for one, read religiously every Sunday), and also regularly blogs for Inside Higher Ed.  He’s been editorially involved with McSweeney’s Internet Tendency since 2003 and currently teaches at the College of Charleston.  You can find him on Twitter, where he tweets as biblioracle.


The First Time I Quit Writing

The first time I quit writing was at the end of graduate school, McNeese State University in Lake Charles, Louisiana MA, MFA ’97.

I’d sold my possessions down to a lamp, a bedroll, a copy of Infinite Jest and my dog Sam, a collie mix.  I’d successfully turned in and “defended” my thesis, which felt like something, but it also laid bare the fact that I was not nearly as good at writing as I wanted or needed to be.

This felt strange, because back in college I seemed to have few doubts about my abilities.  I would workshop a story in class, polish it up and mail it to the New Yorker and wait for my ticket to be punched.  This was the late 80’s, early 90’s, when it was still possible to live with the delusion that placing a story in one of the biggies (Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, Playboy, Esquire) was the route to an eventual stable career as a writer.

It was the path all of my professors had followed, so why not me?

Why not me became clear when I started graduate school following two years of make-do work back home in Chicago.  My cohort was larded with talent, many of whom were already publishing stories in better-than-reputable outlets, and included Adam Johnson who would go on to win a Pulitzer Prize.  The gap between my work and that of my new colleagues was apparent.  I felt deeply embarrassed for my college self.  If I owned a time machine, I would’ve used it to go back and punch myself in the face and also to have one less drink during that sorority semi-formal that I’m not going to go into.

I mostly used my colleagues’ talent as inspiration to get better, only occasionally letting despair take control.  I was not as good as I wanted to be, but I was getting better.  I was no longer sending my stories to the New Yorker, but began taking my shots at the many excellent “little” magazines.  Still, despite improving and setting my sights on more reasonable targets, after three years, I hadn’t managed to find a home for a single story.

It’s painful to remember how important this was for me.  Partly it was ego, wanting to be able to come to class and let it casually slip that my story would be in the Mid-American Review or the Cimarron Review or Carolina Quarterly, but mostly it was that after three years of writing 100,000 words of fiction a year, I needed to know I was getting better.

I told myself that if I didn’t publish a story before I left Louisiana I would try to quit writing.

I went home, twenty-seven years old, broke, owner of a dog and a big-ass novel.  I spent three months in my parents’ basement in the Chicago ’burbs until I found a job at a marketing research firm in Chicago and started making my plan for moving out.  Nights, I kept reading Infinite Jest and then re-reading it, finding it amazing and inspiring.  It kept the flames burning.

The marketing research firm’s offices were in the North Pier area, near Lake Michigan.  A gothic-level fog often crept in, blanketing the spaces between the buildings.  One of those foggy evenings as I walked toward the train home, a woman holding an umbrella disappeared into an especially thick patch in front of me.  As I crossed through the patch, she was no longer visible ahead.

I had the sense that she had been lifted away, transported by a gust under her umbrella, Mary Poppins-style.

I went home and wrote the scene.  Then I added another based on a very bizarre experience I had with a career counselor, and still another from when I woke up one morning during grad school and half a dozen of the books on my top shelf were strewn across the floor as though they had leapt free of their own volition.

The story was strange, very different from what I’d been working on, but it also really pleased me.

At around the same time, Dave Eggers was producing the first issues of McSweeney’s Quarterly and was reportedly looking for material.  As only a clueless asshole can do, I titled the story “Stillness” and sent it to him.

I don’t know how many weeks later, but not that long, he called me and said he’d like to publish the story in the upcoming (3rd) edition of the quarterly.  His only caveat was that I had to change the title because only a clueless asshole calls his story “Stillness.”  (He was actually much nicer than that about the stupid title.)

I ended up titling the story “The Circus Elephants Look Sad Because They Are” and the story did indeed appear in the 3rd edition of McSweeney’s Quarterly, and if you’ve seen the care McSweeney’s takes with their printed items, you can imagine my excitement when I held the physical copy in my hands.

In short order, I wrote another story that found a home, and then I went back to my graduate thesis and picked the most promising pieces and reworked them and they found homes and I realized that my previous self-imposed deadline was arbitrary, that the things I wished for myself and my writing were never going to arrive on a schedule under my control.  Two of those once-disappointing stories from the thesis wound up in my collection, Tough Day for the Army.

I’ve stopped writing fiction a couple of other times over the years, but I now look at these stretches as periods where it’s time to let the fields lie fallow.  So now, when I’m not writing, I call it a sabbatical.

I’ll quit when I’m dead.


Sunday, September 14, 2014

Sunday Sentence: The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen


Simply put, the best sentence(s) I’ve read this past week, presented out of context and without commentary.  Note: I'm breaking my own no-commentary rule this week.  The Sympathizer won't be released until next Spring, but I urge you to pre-order it once it becomes available.  The novel begins in 1975 just as Saigon is about to fall.  As Viet Thanh Nguyen describes it at his website: "Black comedy, historical novel, and literary thriller, The Sympathizer follows a nameless spy who has infiltrated the South Vietnamese army and flees with its remnants to America.  His mission: report on their efforts to continue their lost war.  As the aide to a general who refuses to admit defeat, he observes the struggles of the Vietnamese refugees to survive in a melancholic Los Angeles."  I was privileged to read an advance copy of the novel.  Here's part of what I said about it in the blurb I provided to the publisher: "Who would have thought the fall of Saigon could be so hilarious?  The Sympathizer is like a neon-pink whoopee cushion snuck into a high-level State Department briefing.  Go ahead, laugh.  Viet Thanh Nguyen has given us permission to see both the light and dark sides of a regretful chapter in the histories of both the United States and Vietnam in a tale told by a court jester."  Read below for this week's dazzling, Faulknerian sentence.



We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.

The Sympathizer by Viet Thanh Nguyen


Friday, September 12, 2014

Front Porch Books: September 2014 edition


Front Porch Books is a monthly tally of books--mainly advance review copies (aka "uncorrected proofs" and "galleys")--I've received from publishers, but also sprinkled with packages from Book Mooch, Amazon and other sources.  Because my dear friends, Mr. FedEx and Mrs. UPS, leave them with a doorbell-and-dash method of delivery, I call them my Front Porch Books.  In this digital age, ARCs are also beamed to the doorstep of my Kindle via NetGalley and Edelweiss.  Note: most of these books won't be released for another 2-6 months; I'm just here to pique your interest and stock your wish lists. Cover art and opening lines may change before the book is finally released.


The Infernal by Mark Doten (Graywolf Press):  I'll begin and end this discussion of Mark Doten's debut novel with some ripe Blurbworthiness; first from Ben Marcus (author of The Flame Alphabet): “The Infernal is insane.  Mark Doten turns his war criminals into the lecherous cartoons they might really be, as if the Warren Report were a drugged-out musical.  From now on I want all of my novels this brilliant, this crazily pitched, this original.”  Insane and original--those were just two of the words swooping through my head like dark bird-like shadows as I leafed through the pages of my advance reader's copy of The Infernal.  Some pages are straightforward text, some are transcripts of military reports, others are reproductions of computer screens using Memex [Wikipedia: The memex (a portmanteau of "memory" and "index" or "memory" and "extender") is the name of the hypothetical proto-hypertext system that Vannevar Bush described in his 1945 Atlantic Monthly article "As We May Think."  Bush envisioned the memex as a device in which individuals would compress and store all of their books, records, and communications, "mechanized so that it may be consulted with exceeding speed and flexibility."  The memex would provide an "enlarged intimate supplement to one's memory."  The concept of the memex influenced the development of early hypertext systems (eventually leading to the creation of the World Wide Web) and personal knowledge base software.  However, the memex system used a form of document bookmark list, of static microfilm pages, rather than a true hypertext system where parts of pages would have internal structure beyond the common textual format.]  I don't know what to make of Doten's book, but I guarantee that I'm intrigued.   Here's the Jacket Copy:
In the early years of the Iraq War, a severely burned boy appears on a remote rock formation in the Akkad Valley. A shadowy, powerful group within the U.S. government speculates: Who is he? Where did he come from? And, crucially, what does he know? In pursuit of that information, an interrogator is summoned from his prison cell, and a hideous and forgotten apparatus of torture, which extracts “perfect confessions,” is retrieved from the vaults. Over the course of four days, a cavalcade of voices rises up from the Akkad boy, each one striving to tell his or her own story. Some of these voices are familiar: Osama bin Laden, L. Paul Bremer, Condoleezza Rice, Mark Zuckerberg. Others are less so. But each one has a role in the world shaped by the war on terror. Each wants to tell us: This is the world as it exists in our innermost selves. This is what has been and what might be. This is The Infernal.
Here are some final words of praise from Dale Peck (author of Martin and John):  “From the first page to the last, [The Infernal] explodes like a roll of Black Cats in a dazzling, deafening, brilliant display of linguistic and intellectual energy.  It will thrill you, confound you, and ultimately force you to submit to its perspective, and in the end it will change the way you think about the world you live in.”


The High Divide by Lin Enger (Algonquin Books):  Montana is all the rage in my home library this year, with novels like Painted Horses by Malcolm Brooks, The Home Place by Carrie La Seur and High and Inside by Russell Rowland on the Read It! Loved It! shelf; and The Ploughmen by Kim Zupan and Fourth of July Creek by Smith Henderson on the Can't Wait to Read It, Pretty Sure I'll Love It shelf.  Add Lin Enger's new novel The High Divide to that second list.  His first novel, Undiscovered Country (set in Minnesota) is still impatiently waiting for me on that To-Be-Read shelf, but I may end up discovering The High Divide first.  Because, you know, Montana.  Here's the Jacket Copy:
In 1886, Gretta Pope wakes one morning to discover that her husband is gone. Ulysses Pope has left his family behind on the far edge of Minnesota's western prairie with only the briefest of notes and no explanation for why he left or where he's headed. It doesn't take long for Gretta's young sons, Eli and Danny, to set off after him, following the scant clues they can find, jumping trains to get where they need to go, and ending up in the rugged badlands of Montana. Gretta has no choice but to search for her sons and her husband, leading her to the doorstep of a woman who seems intent on making Ulysses her own. Meanwhile, the boys find that the closer they come to Ulysses' trail, the greater the perils that confront them, until each is faced with a choice about whom he will defend, and who he will become. Enger's breathtaking portrait of the vast plains landscape is matched by the rich expanse of his characters' emotional terrain, as pivotal historical events--the bloody turmoil of expansionism, the near total demise of the bison herds, and the subjugation of the Plains Indians--blend seamlessly with the intimate story of a family's sacrifice and devotion.
Blurbworthiness:  “Set against a backdrop of beauty and danger, this is the moving story of a man coming to terms with his past.  In its narrative simplicity and emotional directness, it is reminiscent of John Ford’s classic The Searchers.” (Publishers Weekly)


The Deep by Nick Cutter (Simon & Schuster):  The Jacket Copy for this new novel coming in January from the author of The Troop doesn't waste any time in ratcheting up the tension:
From the acclaimed author of The Troop—which Stephen King raved “scared the hell out of me and I couldn’t put it down.…old-school horror at its best”—comes this utterly terrifying novel where The Abyss meets The Shining. A strange plague called the ’Gets is decimating humanity on a global scale. It causes people to forget—small things at first, like where they left their keys…then the not-so-small things like how to drive, or the letters of the alphabet. Then their bodies forget how to function involuntarily…and there is no cure. But now, far below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, deep in the Marianas Trench, an heretofore unknown substance hailed as “ambrosia” has been discovered—a universal healer, from initial reports. It may just be the key to a universal cure. In order to study this phenomenon, a special research lab, the Trieste, has been built eight miles under the sea’s surface. But now the station is incommunicado, and it’s up to a brave few to descend through the lightless fathoms in hopes of unraveling the mysteries lurking at those crushing depths…and perhaps to encounter an evil blacker than anything one could possibly imagine. Part horror, part psychological nightmare, The Deep is a novel that fans of Stephen King and Clive Barker won’t want to miss—especially if you’re afraid of the dark.
And how about that hand reaching out to grab us from the cover design?  File under: Irresistible Literature.


Almost Famous Women by Megan Mayhew Bergman (Scribner):  I was honored to share the stage at last year's Brattleboro Literary Festival with Megan Mayhew Bergman as we (along with several other writers) read short short stories.  I read two pieces--one about a cross-country trip that ends in a breakup, and one about a son realizing his father has succumbed to Alzheimer's--but when Megan took the microphone--man, oh, man.  It's like she'd gone out into the audience with a hammer and--tap tap tap--nailed each of us to our seat.  "Expression Theory" is a short piece about James Joyce's daughter, Lucia, who--as Bergman makes explicitly clear in about 750 words--is emotionally troubled but, like her father, possesses a vivid imagination ("Her thoughts were the color of moss and her head was teeming with them.").  Lucia's story is just one of the many about "almost famous women" in Bergman's followup to her promising debut, Birds of a Lesser Paradise.  Here's the Jacket Copy to give you an idea of why I'm already head over heels for this collection, even before I've read all of it:
From “a top-notch emerging writer with a crisp and often poetic voice and wily, intelligent humor” (The Boston Globe): a collection of stories that explores the lives of talented, gutsy women throughout history. The fascinating lives of the characters in Almost Famous Women have mostly been forgotten, but their stories are burning to be told. Now Megan Mayhew Bergman, author of Birds of a Lesser Paradise, resurrects these women, lets them live in the reader’s imagination, so we can explore their difficult choices. Nearly every story in this dazzling collection is based on a woman who attained some celebrity—she raced speed boats or was a conjoined twin in show business; a reclusive painter of renown; a member of the first all-female, integrated swing band. We see Lord Byron’s illegitimate daughter, Allegra; Oscar Wilde’s troubled niece, Dolly; West With the Night author Beryl Markham; and Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sister, Norma. These extraordinary stories travel the world, explore the past (and delve into the future), and portray fiercely independent women defined by their acts of bravery, creative impulses, and sometimes reckless decisions. The world hasn’t always been kind to unusual women, but through Megan Mayhew Bergman’s alluring depictions they finally receive the attention they deserve. Almost Famous Women is a gorgeous collection from an “accomplished writer of short fiction” (Booklist).
I love the way the first story, "The Pretty Grown-Together Children," begins.  It's about Violet and Daisy Hilton, a pair of conjoined twins who toured the U.S. sideshow and vaudeville circuit in the 1930s.  Here are the Opening Lines:
      Let me tell it, I said.
      No, you’re a liar and a drunk, I said. Or she said.
      Our voices could be like one. I could feel hers in my bones, especially when she sang—a strong quicksilver soprano.
      One of us has to tell it, I said, and it’s going to be me.
Like I said, pinned to my seat with nails.


Sins of Our Fathers by Shawn Lawrence Otto (Milkweed Editions):  This debut novel by the award-winning writer and co-producer of the Oscar-nominated film House of Sand and Fog, takes us to a specialized world of banking, casinos and Native American reservations in the "northern heartland" of America.  It's not a world I often encounter in contemporary literature (or, maybe I just need to get out more).  Here's the Jacket Copy to further pique your interest:
JW is a small-town banker. His specialty: teaching other bankers in towns near Indian reservations how to profit from casino deposits without exposing themselves to risk. His problem: having lost his son in a car accident a year ago, JW is depressed, his wife is leaving him, and he can't stop gambling. When he is caught embezzling funds to support his addiction, JW's boss offers him a choice. He can either accept responsibility and go to prison, or use his talents to sabotage a competing Native American banker named Johnny Eagle. With the clock ticking, JW moves into a trailer on the reservation within sight of his prey. But as he befriends Eagle and his son, JW finds that his plan to reclaim his freedom will be more dangerous than he ever could have imagined.

The Story of My Heart by Richard Jefferies (Torrey House Press):  The subtitle of this edition of Jefferies' 1883 autobiography bears mentioning: "As Rediscovered by Brooke Williams and Terry Tempest Williams."  When I saw one of our most respected nature writers (When Women Were Birds) and her husband were bringing a 131-year-old book to my attention, I sat up a little straighter and peered a little closer.  Here's the Jacket Copy with the backstory:
While browsing a Stonington, Maine, bookstore, Brooke Williams and Terry Tempest Williams discovered a rare copy of an exquisite autobiography by nineteenth-century British nature writer Richard Jefferies, who develops his understanding of a "soul-life" while wandering the wild countryside of Wiltshire, England. Brooke and Terry, like John Fowles, Henry Miller, and Rachel Carson before, were inspired by the prescient words of this visionary writer, who describes ineffable feelings of being at one with nature. In an introduction and essays set alongside Jefferies' writing, the Williams share their personal pilgrimage to Wiltshire to understand this man of "cosmic consciousness" and how their exploration of Jefferies deepened their own relationship while illuminating dilemmas of modernity, the intrinsic need for wildness, and what it means to be human in the twenty-first century.
Here are the Opening Lines, as published by Jefferies in 1883:
The story of my heart commences seventeen years ago. In the glow of youth, there were times every now and then when I felt the necessity of a strong inspiration of soul-thought. My heart was dusty, parched for want of the rain of deep feeling; my mind arid and dry, for there is a dust which settles on the heart as well as that which falls on a ledge. It is injurious to the mind as well as to the body to be always in one place and always surrounded by the same circumstances. A species of thick clothing slowly grows about the mind, the pores are choked, little habits become a part of existence, and by degrees the mind is inclosed in a husk. When this began to form I felt eager to escape from it, to throw off the heavy clothing, to drink deeply once more at the fresh foundations of life. An inspiration--a long deep breath of the pure air of thought--could alone give health to the heart.
Chapters of Jefferies' 19th-century book are interspersed with Brooke's writing about his relationship with Terry and how his reading of the book impacts him in the deepest, most spiritual ways.  This looks like it will be the perfect kind of book to read this winter, what I've always consider a contemplative season.


Straight White Male by John Niven (Grove/Atlantic):  Oh, Opening Lines, how I love you so!  Let me pull you close, press the flesh of my eyes against the curve of your vowels, and ravish you all night long!
      He recrossed his legs, comfortable in the club chair, and gazed out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pretending to consider the question. From where he sat, nicely chilled by the AC, high in Century City (the shark tank of CAA just down the street), Kennedy Marr could look east and see downtown Los Angeles broiling in the July heat. ‘Broiling’. Ach – these Americans. He’d been here eight years and he still didn’t really know what ‘broiling’ was. Somewhere between frying and boiling? Wouldn’t ‘froiling’ be better? Whatever – it was just after 11 a.m. and it was already froiling. This demented city, this insult to nature: a garden carved out of desert basin. Like maintaining a 20,000-hectare greenhouse in the Arctic. He became aware that Dr Brendle – one of this demented city’s more demented creations, Kennedy thought – was looking at him expectantly, his pinched, serious face demanding an answer. Kennedy now realised he had completely forgotten what the question had been. Not a listener.
      ‘Could you, ah, could you rephrase that please?’ he said, smoothing down the leg of his linen suit, feeling the sluggish tug of the enormous screwdriver he’d guzzled at a bar off Santa Monica Boulevard on the way here, to fortify himself for this hellish, weekly appointment.
      ‘Well, another way of putting it,’ Brendle said, clicking his pen on and off, ‘would be to ask why, as an intelligent man whose working life must involve a good degree of self-analysis, do you continue to indulge in behaviour that you know is hurtful to those around you?’
It's going to be pretty easy to indulge, binge and engorge on John Niven's tasty new novel, Straight White Male.  Here's the Jacket Copy for your ogling pleasure:
Irish novelist Kennedy Marr is a first rate bad boy. When he is not earning a fortune as one of Hollywood's most sought after script writers, he is drinking, insulting and philandering his way through LA, 'successfully debunking the myth that men are unable to multitask'. He is loved by many women, but loathed by even more including ex-wives on both sides of the pond. Kennedy's appetite for trouble is insatiable, but when he discovers that he owes 1.4 million dollars in back taxes, it seems his outrageous, hedonistic lifestyle may not be as sustainable as he thought. Forced to accept a teaching position at sleepy Deeping University, where his ex-wife and teenaged daughter now reside, Kennedy returns to England with a paper trail of tabloid headlines and scorned starlets hot on his bespoke heels. However, as he acclimatizes to the quaint campus Kennedy is forced to reconsider his laddish lifestyle. Incredible as it may seem, there might actually be a father and a teacher lurking inside this 'preening, narcissistic, priapic sociopath'. Straight White Male is a wildly funny and whip smart tale of Kennedy's transatlantic misadventures. It's an uninhibited and heartfelt look at the mid-life crisis of a lovable rogue.
Ooo, and la, and la!


Jackaby by William Ritter (Algonquin Books):  R. F. Jackaby, "an enigmatic detective of all things supernatural," has a staff whose members include a duck and a frog.  Oh man, you had me at "enigmatic"; the animal assistants just sealed the deal.  The first in a planned series for Algonquin's Young Readers imprint, Jackaby captured my attention well before its publication date.  I welcomed its arrival on my front porch.  Here's the Jacket Copy:
"Miss Rook, I am not an occultist," Jackaby said. "I have a gift that allows me to see truth where others see the illusion--and there are many illusions. All the world's a stage, as they say, and I seem to have the only seat in the house with a view behind the curtain." Newly arrived in New Fiddleham, New England, 1892, and in need of a job, Abigail Rook meets R. F. Jackaby, an investigator of the unexplained with a keen eye for the extraordinary--including the ability to see supernatural beings. Abigail has a gift for noticing ordinary but important details, which makes her perfect for the position of Jackaby's assistant. On her first day, Abigail finds herself in the midst of a thrilling case: A serial killer is on the loose. The police are convinced it's an ordinary villain, but Jackaby is certain it's a nonhuman creature, whose existence the police--with the exception of a handsome young detective named Charlie Cane--deny. Doctor Who meets Sherlock in a debut novel, the first in a series, brimming with cheeky humor and a dose of the macabre.
Blurbworthiness: “Toss together an alternate 19th-century New England city, a strong tradition of Sherlockian pastiche, and one seriously ugly hat, and this lighthearted and assured debut emerges, all action and quirk.”  (Publishers Weekly)


McGlue by Ottessa Moshfegh (Fence Books):  Winner of the 2014 Fence Modern Prize in Prose, Moshfegh's novel opens with an epigraph from Emerson: "The young men were born with knives in their brain."  From what I've read so far, that's the perfect tone to set for this electrifying short novel.  As prize judge Rivka Galchen noted, "A sextant of the psyche, McGlue works its grand knowing through the mouthfeel of language; it's a sharply intelligent, beautiful, and singular novel.  A scion of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Raymond Carver at once, Moshfegh transforms a poison into an intoxicant."  The proof is in the poison--here are the Opening Lines:
      I wake up.
      My shirtfront is stiff and bibbed brown. I take it to be dried blood and I'm a dead man. The ocean air persuades me to doubt, to reel my head in double-, triple-takes towards my feet. My feet are on the ground. It may be that I fell face first in mud. Anyway, I'm still too drunk to care.
The Jacket Copy hints at how McGlue got in this sorry state of affairs:
      Salem, Massachusetts, 1851: McGlue is in the hold, still too drunk to be sure of name or situation or orientation--he may have killed a man. That man may have been his best friend. Intolerable memory accompanies sobriety. A-sail on the high seas of literary tradition, Ottessa Moshfegh gives us a nasty heartless blackguard on a knife-sharp voyage through the fogs of recollection.
      "They said I've done something wrong?...And they've just left me down here to starve. They'll see this inanition and be so damned they'll fall to my feet and pass up hot cross buns slathered in fresh butter and beg I forgive them. All of them...the entire world one by one. Like a good priest I'll pat their heads and nod. I'll dunk my skull into a barrel of gin."
Blurbworthiness: "Short-fiction genius Ottessa Moshfegh's first novel is a gorgeously sordid story of love and murder on the high seas and in reeky corners of mid-nineteenth-century New York and points North.  McGlue is a wonderwork of virtuoso prose and truths that will make you squirm and concur."  (Gary Lutz)


Friday Freebie: The Witch's Boy by Kelly Barnhill and Somebody Up There Hates You by Hollis Seamon


Congratulations to Josh Mahler and Deborah Henry, winners of last week's Friday Freebie giveaway.  Josh and Deb will soon be enjoying Emily St. John's backlist: Last Night in Montreal, The Singer's Gun and The Lola Quartet.

Up for grabs in this week's contest, I've got two novels from Algonquin Books: The Witch's Boy by Kelly Barnhill and Somebody Up There Hates You by Hollis Seamon.  I suppose they could be classified as "Young Adult," but really these books are for readers both young(ish) and old.  I know they're in my To-Be-Read pile, and they should be in yours, too.  One lucky reader will win a hardback edition of both books.  By the way, in case you missed Kelly's contribution to the "My First Time" series here at the blog, you should check it out.  Read on for more information on the novels....

Here's what I had to say about The Witch's Boy in a previous Front Porch Books here at the blog: Kelly Barnhill's fairy tale (the first four words are "Once upon a time") is tinted with tones of Disney elements: enchanted kingdoms, meek heroes finding inner strength, the everlasting bonds of friendship, etc.  That's why it's a little surprising to see the death of a major character on page 2 of this novel for young readers.  Then again, I have to remind myself, even Bambi's mother died and Old Yeller had to be put down.  In The Witch's Boy, Ned and his identical twin Tam secretly build a raft and, once they feel the vessel is seaworthy, slide into the Great River, hoping to make it to the sea.  The raft is a failure, both boys tumble into the river's current, and their agonized father dives in, knowing he can save only one of his children.  People call from the shore: "If you can only save one, make sure you save the right one."  That's quite a moral dilemma to present to young readers right off the bat, isn't it?  But I think it helps us sympathize all the more with Ned, the one who was saved, the one the villagers say was the wrong one.  In just three pages, Barnhill has already set the hook and grabbed my attention.  But wait, it gets even better.  Ned's mother, it turns out, is a witch, "the keeper of a small store of magic--one so ancient and so powerful that everyone knew it would kill a man if he touched it--but it did her no good.  Her magic could only be used in the service of others."  All the spells in the world cannot revive Sister Witch's drowned son.  Anne Ursu, author of Breadcrumbs, had this to say about the novel: "The Witch’s Boy is equal parts enchanting and haunting.  Kelly Barnhill is master of truly potent and unruly magic."

I was drawn into Hollis Seamon's 2013 novel Somebody Up There Hates You from the opening paragraphs:
      I shit you not. Hey, I'm totally reliable, sweartogod. I, Richard Casey--aka the Incredible Dying Boy--actually do live, temporarily, in the very hospice unit I'm going to tell you about. Third floor, Hilltop Hospital, in the city of Hudson, the great state of New York.
      Let me tell you just one thing about this particular hospice. Picture this: right in front of the elevator that spits people into our little hospice home there is a harpist. No joke. Right there in our lobby, every damn day, this old lady with white hair and weird long skirts sits by a honking huge harp and strums her heart out. Or plucks, whatever. The harp makes all these sappy sweet notes that stick in your throat.
Here's the publisher's synopsis of the novel: "Chemo, radiation, a zillion surgeries, watching my mom age twenty years in twenty months...if that's part of the Big Dude's plan, then it's pretty obvious, isn't it?  Enough said."  Smart-mouthed and funny, sometimes raunchy, Richard Casey is in most ways a typical seventeen-year-old boy.  Except Richie has cancer, and he's spending his final days in a hospice unit.  His mother, his doctors, and the hospice staff are determined to keep Richie alive as long as possible.  But in this place where people go to die, Richie has plans to make the most of the life he has left.  Sylvie, the only other hospice inmate under sixty, then tells Richie she has a few plans of her own.  What begins as camaraderie quickly blossoms into real love, and this star-crossed pair is determined to live on their own terms, in whatever time they have left.

If you’d like a chance at winning both books, simply email your name and mailing address to

Put FRIDAY FREEBIE in the e-mail subject line.  One entry per person, please.  Despite its name, the Friday Freebie runs all week long and remains open to entries until midnight on Sept. 18, at which time I’ll draw the winning name.  I’ll announce the lucky reader on Sept. 19.  If you’d like to join the mailing list for the once-a-week newsletter, simply add the words “Sign me up for the newsletter” in the body of your email.  Your email address and other personal information will never be sold or given to a third party (except in those instances where the publisher requires a mailing address for sending Friday Freebie winners copies of the book).

Want to double your odds of winning?  Get an extra entry in the contest by posting a link to this webpage on your blog, your Facebook wall or by tweeting it on Twitter.  Once you’ve done any of those things, send me an additional e-mail saying “I’ve shared” and I’ll put your name in the hat twice.


Thursday, September 11, 2014

Full-Frontal Fiction: Naked Me by Christian Winn


What does a wife's skin feel like under bathtub water?  Like rubber or hard-boiled eggs.

What does Puget Sound smell like in the summer?  Coppertone and grease.

How does it feel to be a single thirty-year-old woman in 1997, the year all the celebrities died?  Broken and haunted and lonely and mortal.

These may seem like random, insignificant things, but as any lover of short fiction can tell you, these small pointillistic details add up to make a deep, large portrait in a tiny frame.  Short story writers only have a reader's attention for a limited time and space, so they better make sure those stippled dots of paint are vivid and indelible.

In his debut collection, Naked Me, Christian Winn does a superb job of making sure we remember his people and places--not only in the examples I cited above, but in stories that show us what it's like to have sex with a desirable women while a balcony full of your friends voyeurs your intimacy from across the street (further complicating matters: you used to be one of those balcony-oglers and you're in the woman's apartment on a bet); or what it's like to be on the losing end of a fistfight with a Mormon; or what it's like to be a teenager whose best friend's mother is going cuckoo.

This latter story, "The Dirtiest Hamburger in the World," captures the world of a teenager in a way that would make John Green (or S. E. Hinton or Judy Blume) jealous.  Here's how it begins:
It was the first week of July when Drew came over at 9 a.m., told me his mother was hunched in her bedroom closet pretending she was a rabbit.  He said she was eating a Pop-Tart with tiny buck-toothed bites.  He wanted it to be funny, but I know he was scared.  We were fourteen.
Set in 1980, the story absolutely nails adolescence to the wall, reminding the adult me what it was like to be a teenager just starting to come into his own as a person--caught without a map in the twilight world between child and adult.  The boys in "The Dirtiest Hamburger in the World" have a lot of time on their hands since Drew, a star pitcher, quit the summer league baseball team in solidarity with Bradley (the story's narrator) who'd just been kicked off by their temperamental coach.  The two roam "the hidden folds" of their mid-sized California town, scavenging a switchblade, a bag of dope and a box of old Playboys.  They also find the titular hamburger, a ten-foot plastic thing with a "giant yellow bun," charred-black patty, and "unreal bright green" lettuce.  In a parking lot behind Ling's Chinese Restaurant and the Tip Top Tavern, the burger is "just sitting there dusty and covered with leaves."  They hang out on the burger, smoke stolen cigarettes and try to defend their territory from older bullies.  The story is sweet, tough-as-nails, and ultimately very sad.  I loved it.

I'm also extremely fond of "Where He's Living Now," in which a thirty-year-old son tries to reconnect with his distant, widowed father.  They try to get past their strained banter and bond over golf, club sandwiches and a Padres game.  But it isn't until they play a game of Scrabble with a friend and his wheelchair-bound son that they really connect.  "Where He's Living Now" might just put a lump in your throat.

In "Mr. Formal," twenty-one-year-old Stephen is trying to sort out his life in the wake of his parents' messy breakup.  Stephen works at a tuxedo shop in Boise, Idaho, where he's moved to be with his father.  At the tux store, he suffers from ennui ("fallout-shelter-type bored"), but hey, "at least I worked at the Broadway store, and not at the mall where horny high school dudes with their wispy mustaches and stringy, mullety hair--endlessly lining up to pay good money for a rented outfit they assumed, along with dinner at Johnny Carino's, would get them laid."  Like "Where He's Living Now," "Mr. Formal" ends on a sweet note of paternal love.  At a party, Stephen picks up a one-night stand--a redhead named Shasta.  They break in to Mr. Formal, make love in the back room, then dress themselves in tuxedos and go to Stephen's house to drunkenly show off their duds.  When they get there, though, they spy Stephen's father through the dining room picture window.  He's ballroom dancing with himself:
      As Dad reached for the wine glass and brought it to his lips he saw us, and froze--maybe scared? embarrassed? sweetly elated?
      "He's had a couple."  I quietly waved to my father.
      "So have we," Shasta said, and a tingle sped through me.
      In a round, muffled tone I heard him through the window: "Stephen!  My boy!  I'm dancing, dancing!"  He foxtrotted toward the window, spun again, tiptoed, twirled, wine glass still in hand.
      "Who is this?!" he said, pointing.
      "Dad," I yelled, pointing back at him, then at the pretty girl on my arm.  "This is Shasta."
      "Yes it is!"
      "You're a great dancer," Shasta said.  "You really are!"
      He shuffled slowly, gracefully to the window.  "So be it," my father said, leaning his forehead against the glass, rattling the still night air.  He looked peaceful, content to be seeing me like that, and I was happier for him than I had been in years, maybe happier than I would ever be again, as he pulled away, rubbed his dark chin-stubble, studying us.
      "You're looking pretty good there, Dad!"
There are so many fine moments like this throughout the book.  The stories are emotionally uncompromising in their approach and paint vivid worlds in which we may, on occasion, see ourselves staring back from the page.  This is full-frontal fiction: Christian Winn strips away all the layers that form a barrier between words and our hearts.


Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Trailer Park Tuesday: Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel


Welcome to Trailer Park Tuesday, a showcase of new book trailers and, in a few cases, previews of book-related movies.




It's the end of the world as we know it....and we readers feel fine--that is, as long as we have novels like Emily St. John Mandel's Station Eleven by our side as we head into global oblivion.  Pandemic, social and economic collapse, panic in the streets....and it all starts with Shakespeare.  Here's the plot synopsis for Station Eleven:
One snowy night Arthur Leander, a famous actor, has a heart attack onstage during a production of King Lear. Jeevan Chaudhary, a paparazzo-turned-EMT, is in the audience and leaps to his aid. A child actress named Kirsten Raymonde watches in horror as Jeevan performs CPR, pumping Arthur’s chest as the curtain drops, but Arthur is dead. That same night, as Jeevan walks home from the theater, a terrible flu begins to spread. Hospitals are flooded and Jeevan and his brother barricade themselves inside an apartment, watching out the window as cars clog the highways, gunshots ring out, and life disintegrates around them. Fifteen years later, Kirsten is an actress with the Traveling Symphony. Together, this small troupe moves between the settlements of an altered world, performing Shakespeare and music for scattered communities of survivors. Written on their caravan, and tattooed on Kirsten’s arm is a line from Star Trek: “Because survival is insufficient.” But when they arrive in St. Deborah by the Water, they encounter a violent prophet who digs graves for anyone who dares to leave. Spanning decades, moving back and forth in time, and vividly depicting life before and after the pandemic, this suspenseful, elegiac novel is rife with beauty. As Arthur falls in and out of love, as Jeevan watches the newscasters say their final good-byes, and as Kirsten finds herself caught in the crosshairs of the prophet, we see the strange twists of fate that connect them all.
You might think this is the stuff of depressing fiction--slit-wrist lit--but as the trailer embedded above makes clear, Station Eleven is a novel that looks for the butterfly on the battlefield.  I was genuinely moved when I reached the point in the two-minute video where we're asked: "What would you miss most?"  Eating an ice cream cone in the city park?  Plucking a sun-bright orange from a tree?  Dancing in a nightclub?  Or, maybe, reading ripe, delicious words on a page?  Today's the official publication date for Station Eleven.  Everyone should run out and get a copy.  Before it's too late.


Monday, September 8, 2014

Fiction Begins Here: Fobbit in the Wild (as Captured by Intrepid Photographers & Assundry Passersby With Smartphones)


Logan Schulke and his family live across the street from me.  Logan is a ridiculously smart young man with an altruistic drive to improve his community; I often see him mowing neighbors' lawns and planting flowers at the local city-owned Clark Park here in Butte, Montana.  Logan and I have had a nodding acquaintance--mostly at neighborhood garage sales and Christmas parties--but it wasn't until after he graduated high school, flew halfway around the world and picked up a copy of Fobbit that we had a personal, one-on-one exchange.  He sent me this photo, along with the following Facebook message:

I was sitting in a rather small bookstore in southwest England when suddenly I saw a name I recognized on the wall. Amazing how small the world seems some days.

Indeed, Logan, indeed.  Just how shrunk-down that globe really is became apparent to me about a week before Fobbit was published when friends--Facebook and otherwise--started sending me photos of my debut novel spotted on their local bookstore's shelves, or on the selfie-end of a camera.  Since today marks the two-year anniversary of the book's official launch at Fact and Fiction Books in Missoula, Montana, I thought I'd take a selfish moment and share some of my favorite photos submitted to me over the past 24 months.  I'll keep saying it 'til my mouth runs dry and my tongue falls out: "THANK YOU to everyone who has taken the time to buy and/or read my dark little comedy about the Iraq War.  You have made me the happiest and luckiest guy on the globe."

At The Strand in New York City.

Ann B. in Scotland was one of my first international readers.

Staff Sergeant Graham was brave enough to flash his Fobbit on an Army post.

Tracy in Richmond Hill, Georgia needed a little wine
to help her get through the book.
I'm totally cool with that.

Mystery novelist Robert K. Lewis (Critical Damage) sent his Fobbit portrait in noir-soaked B&W.

At the esteemed Joseph-Beth Booksellers in Lexington, Kentucky.

Matthew sent proof that Fobbit is alive and well in Hawaii.

Dear friend Robyn sent this from Australia.
You can't see it, but she has a Vegemite sandwich in her back pocket.

Bozeman (Montana) friend Angela snapped this picture shortly before
my appearance at Tattered Cover in Denver.

The filling in a Hunger Games/Mindy Kaling sandwich, courtesy of
Joshilyn Jackson (Someone Else's Love Story).
I've always been fond of the number 15.

I still can't believe Fobbit beat out Legends of the Fall
in the Great Falls (Montana) Books and Brews Book Club vote.
Thanks, gents!  (And better luck next time, Jim...)

In which young Atticus asks, "Daddy, what's an f-bomb?"
(This is still one of my favorite Fobbit photos)

Sally C. snapped this at, of all places, a Kinko's.
I've always counted on the Tolkien spillover
from the ignorant and/or near-sighted to boost my sales.

Earlier this year at the Waterstones in Norwich, England.

Jayme, a dear friend from high school, took Fobbit on a sightseeing tour of NYC.
Like this....

....that....

....and the other.

Fobbit photobombs a Michael Chabon reading at Powell's.

Double the Fobbit at Politics and Prose,
taken by Priscille Sibley (The Promise of Stardust).

Still life on my parents' coffee table, along with Fire and Forget
(which contains one of my short stories) and the omnipresent bowl of hard candies.

And, finally, I'll leave you with this shot of my son posing with Fobbit in the Savannah, Georgia Barnes & Noble two weeks after its release:



(If anyone else out there would like to see their Fobbit in the Wild photo on this page, email it to me and I'll update accordingly.)


My First Time: Carla Panciera


My First Time is a regular feature in which writers talk about virgin experiences in their writing and publishing careers, ranging from their first rejection to the moment of holding their first published book in their hands.  Today’s guest is Carla Panciera, author of the short story collection Bewildered which received AWP’s Grace Paley Prize for Short Fiction and will be available from the University of Massachusetts Press in October.  She is also the author of two collections of poetry: One of the Cimalores (Cider Press) and No Day, No Dusk, No Love (Bordighera).  She has published fiction, memoir, and poetry in several journals including The New England Review, Nimrod, The Chattahoochee Review, and Carolina Quarterly.  She and her husband, Dennis Donoghue, live in Rowley, MA, with their three daughters.  Carla teaches high school English.


My Book’s First Public Appearance

The books arrived on a September day saturated with light and sun.  I feel it now–the heat of that moment, the blood rushing to my fingertips as I ran them along a spine with my name on it.  I pored over the ISBN, the copyright, all the things that made me feel not myself, but someone greater!  Someone for whom one slice of shelf space in a library might be reserved!  I picked up several copies, stunned by their miraculous uniformity, before I finally flipped to the poems themselves and thought: Oh god.  What have I done?  In my excitement to finally have a book published, I had forgotten that people–especially people I knew–would, for the first time, actually read it.

The next day, as I walked my dog, my neighbor pulled up beside me.  “I’m loving the book!” she said.  Before I could thank her, she added: “It’s so revealing!” and sped off.

At a signing, a woman told me her husband refused to come.  “He was mad at you for a while,” she said.  “He’s over it now.  That Oak Street Cowboys poem?  That was his father who was shot.”  I had retold my own father’s story about an argument that erupted over whose homemade wine was better; the dead man was a “ghost sitting on the front steps,/in a t-shirt and workpants, the shoes he’d crossed the ocean in.”

An ex-boyfriend’s mother bought a copy and sent me a lovely card that thrilled me until I remembered the Block Island poem in which her son figures prominently.  She would recognize “the scar/below his navel, a cool bowl/you leave your thumbprint in.”  Maybe she had forgotten that trip.  Maybe she thought the beach sex was made up.

I had not changed the name of another old boyfriend, a name that happened to belong to exactly one person in my hometown for the twenty I’d lived there.  The poem itself chronicled part of another relationship, part of a fictional scene, but who would know that?  Oh well, I thought, it’s only about having a crush.  How harmful can that be?  Then, one night, after he had put his colicky twins to bed and drunk some bourbon, my nephew called me.  “I really like your poems, ” he said.  “But I have two questions: #1 – did you really have your first experience with Cameron B –? and (from a poem derived from a friend’s description of her anti-depressants) #2 do you have an addiction to prescription painkillers?  You can tell me,” he said.  “It won’t change how I feel about you.”

When I recounted these interactions to one of my writer friends and confessed my fear of appearing in public to read from this surprising tell-all, my friend said, “Poetry isn’t memoir.  It isn’t history.”

When I had a similar conversation with my mother, she said: “You’re missing the point.  People are actually reading the book.”

Of all the fantasies I’d entertained about the publication of my first book, the one scenario I had not envisioned turned out to be the best part of all: I got to talk to people about poetry, not just my own poems, but poetry itself.  I am grateful for those moments that moved me toward a more complete understanding of what poetry is and what it definitely is not.

I also learned that, for me at least, there is some responsibility I hadn’t previously considered.  Scribbling in my notebooks while the rest of the world slept, sending my work to small and lovely literary magazines that no one in my real world read, I had not applied to my own work what I have always known to be true: words have power.  Meaning is not inherent in the page but discovered by the reader.

Whenever I forget those lessons and begin, again, to obsess about the place my book might secure in some library a hundred years from now, I remind myself of one scene that occurred at a family gathering several months after the book came out.  Distrusting my explanation of my poem “The Crush,” my nephew stood up and read it according to his own interpretation.  He wiggled his eyebrows and winked, mastered the let’s-get-it-on tone he insisted was present.  Okay, so I can never read that poem aloud again to an audience, but my mother was right: he had read the poem and I loved what he made of it.


Sunday, September 7, 2014

Sunday Sentence: Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan


Simply put, the best sentence(s) I’ve read this past week, presented out of context and without commentary.


The sun was like a huge fifty-cent piece that someone had poured kerosene on and then had lit with a match and said, “Here, hold this while I go get a newspaper,” and put the coin in my hand, but never came back.

Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Soup and Salad: Writers' Day Jobs, A Bro-Mancy Book Tour, The Nixon Tapes, Flaherty-Dunnan Shortlist, Margaret Atwood's Future Novel, Voices From War, Burgers With Cara Hoffman, Burgers With Hemingway


On today's menu:

1.  Like 97 percent* of my bretheren and sisteren, I'm a writer who supports himself with a Day Job.  In fact, I've always supported myself with non-fiction-related employment.  I currently work as a public affairs specialist for a government agency in Montana** but in the past, I've balanced writing novels and short stories with work as an elementary school janitor, pizza delivery driver, video store clerk, newspaper editor, stage actor, short-order cook, and soldier (for twenty long, hard years).  Over the course of those thirty-two years, the amount of money I made through my writing would probably keep me comfortably afloat for about twelve months--and that's assuming the money came in regularly during that year, which it never does, of course.  And so I beat on, a writer against his bank account, borne back ceaselessly into the Day Job.  As a recent Huffington Post article reminds me, I am not alone.  The Bizarre Day Jobs Of 20 Famous Authors aren't always bizarre (what's so strange about being a teacher or a bank teller?), but they are interesting.  At the very least, I'd imagine laboring as an exterminator, blacksmith's apprentice and oyster pirate would provide some good fodder for what we writers consider our "real" job.


2.  Josh Weil and Mike Harvkey have filed their second dispatch from their cross-country tour promoting their new novels (The Great Glass Sea and In the Course of Human Events, respectively).  This new report is every bit as smart, engaging and bro-mancy as the first one, which I linked to here.  At Salon, the two novelists talk about the Then vs. Now of book tours:
      This is what book tour used to be like: The publisher flew the writer around the country. On the plane, the writer smoked Camels, drank whiskey. At the airport, the writer was met by a guy holding a little sign. He was the writer’s driver, and drove him to the hotel the publisher had secured for the writer’s enjoyment. After the writer had freshened up, he stood at a podium and read from his book. People ate it up. The writer was a kind of god. After the reading, the publisher took the writer and his friends to dinner. It was expensive. It went late. A lot of drinks were drunk. Near dawn, the writer succumbed to a few hours sleep. The next day was much the same.
      It looked like this:


      Or this:


      Or this:


      This is what a book tour looks like today:



3.  When I was browsing the new release section at Country Bookshelf a couple of weeks ago, a book with a lemon-yellow dustjacket caught my eye.  Though I don't generally gravitate toward political history, something about The Nixon Tapes drew me in.  The ginormous (784 pages) book edited and annotated by Douglas Brinkley and Luke Nichter is essentially a transcript*** of more than 3,000 hours of recordings made between 1971 and 1972 at the White House and Camp David.  This is the period just before the Watergate break-in and while it's no doubt possible to hear the hiss of that scandal in the background of the tapes, the book primarily focuses on the year Nixon opened relations with China, negotiated the SALT I arms agreement with the Soviet Union, and won a landslide reelection victory.  While The Nixon Tapes fell outside my budget for that particular Country Bookshelf shopping spree (I already had three other books tucked under my arm), the book continued to tantalize me over the next week.  I finally broke down and bought the e-book version (saving myself some valuable shelf real estate and wrist fatigue), and I'm glad I did because one extra-bookular feature is a series of embedded audio clips which you can play while reading the conversation in the book, beginning with this exchange between Nixon and Alexander Butterfield, his Deputy Assistant, about sound-activated recording equipment which had just been installed in the Oval Office:
Butterfield: You’re wearing the locator right now and you’re in the office....It depends on voice activation—
Nixon: Right.
Butterfield: —so you don’t have to turn it on and off.
Nixon: Oh, this is good. Is there any chance to get two? You see, the purpose of this is to have the whole thing on the file—
Butterfield: Yes, sir.
Nixon: —for professional reasons.

4.  Congratulations to the debut novelists who made the Flaherty-Dunnan shortlist (including the above-mentioned Josh Weil).  So many of these books are on my own shortlist to read (a list which, unfortunately, grows longer with every new book that arrives on my front porch).


Margaret Atwood's next novel (photo by MJC)
5.  Here's a novel that will never be on my To-Be-Read list, or the list of anyone else who's alive today: Margaret Atwood's untitled novel...which will not be published until 2114.  The Canadian author is the first to participate in the Future Library project.  The Guardian explains:
      The Future Library project, conceived by the award-winning young Scottish artist Katie Paterson, began, quietly, this summer, with the planting of a forest of 1,000 trees in Nordmarka, just outside Oslo. It will slowly unfold over the next century. Every year until 2114, one writer will be invited to contribute a new text to the collection, and in 2114, the trees will be cut down to provide the paper for the texts to be printed–and, finally, read.
      "It is the kind of thing you either immediately say yes or no to. You don't think about it for very long," said Atwood, speaking from Copenhagen. "I think it goes right back to that phase of our childhood when we used to bury little things in the backyard, hoping that someone would dig them up, long in the future, and say, 'How interesting, this rusty old piece of tin, this little sack of marbles is. I wonder who put it there?'"

6.  Please give a like to the Voices From War Facebook page; they do good work for veterans, and for literature in general.


7.  Cara Hoffman (Be Safe I Love You) had burgers with George Stephanopoulos at Strip House in New York City.  Among other things, they talked about the role of females in the military and how Hoffman's brother influenced and inspired her writing.  You can eavesdrop on their conversation here.



8.  Now that we're on the subject of ground beef and it's lunchtime in my time zone, I'll leave you with this recipe for Ernest Hemingway's Favorite Wild West Hamburger.  The ingredients include wine, capers, apples, carrots, sage and one teaspoon of minced chest hair.


*A non-scientific statistic I pulled out of my ass.
**The Bureau of Land Management, if you must know.
***In one of the first Oval Office recordings, Nixon said: "Mum's the whole word.  I will not be transcribed."